


where the lights burn low and you're only mine

by hopelessromantic549



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Canon, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), can't stop won't stop dreaming about these characters, so much fluff it will make your teeth rot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelessromantic549/pseuds/hopelessromantic549
Summary: For the most part, Aziraphale sees himself as a rational angel who follows a consistent moral code. That has been his identity for millennia, and it comforts him, gives him stability in an ever-changing universe.What he feels for Crowley is decidedly not rational, and that's more terrifying than the Great Plan failing him.(Or, Aziraphale and Crowley move into a cottage together after the world doesn't end, and Aziraphale tries to be brave.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 314





	where the lights burn low and you're only mine

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I have watched the Good Omens series countless times since it came out. Yes, I have devoured as many fanfics as I can get my hands on. Yes, I have a problem and it took me months and months to finish this…hope you enjoy anyway!
> 
> Title from the achingly beautiful and shockingly apt “Wild Love” by James Bay.
> 
> P.S. These are scary, stressful, and uncertain times. Please hold each other tight and reach out if you need help.

_“_ _He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.”  
_ _\- Emily Bronte, “Wuthering Heights”_

Aziraphale liked to think that he was a rational celestial being. He took orders from Heaven without asking too many questions. He listened to God and believed in the Great Plan, believed in its divinity and ineffability. He could explain each of his actions in a logical manner; he did nothing without evaluating the relative morality of doing so and the subsequent consequences.

Of course, he could admit that sometimes he was irrational – he could be undone by a perfectly torched crème brulee, for example, and he’d been known to lose his senses over a vintage bottle of Cabernet. He would willingly describe himself as a hedonist who perhaps had taken “going native” a little too far, as Gabriel would put it, and he acknowledged that gluttony was not the most logical quality to indulge in.

For the most part, though, he saw himself as a rational angel who followed a consistent moral code. That had been his identity for millennia, and it comforted him. Gave him stability in an ever-changing universe.

What he felt for Crowley, meanwhile, was decidedly not rational, and, lately, that was more terrifying than the Great Plan failing him in the end.

...

_1 Day After the World Didn't End_

When the apocalypse-that-wasn’t is over, Aziraphale and Crowley simply look at each other. They’re sitting on the same bench they’ve always sat at in St. James Park, wearing the same clothes they’ve always worn (well, Crowley’s outfit is a bit more updated, naturally), feeding the same ducks they’ve always fed. 

Nothing at all has changed, and yet – everything has changed.

They sit in silence for a while, and Aziraphale drinks in the incandescent blue sky, the nightingales chirping, Crowley’s solid warmth next to him. He can’t help but sigh a little. He almost lost this all, and his joy at it remaining is more than he can take.

“Tempt you to a spot of lunch, angel?” Crowley asks, in the same indulgent tone of voice he’s always used.

Aziraphale beams – literally beams – with celestial excitement. “Oh, my dear, _please_.”

They make their way to lunch in more companionable silence. Their hands brush as they walk, and Aziraphale suppresses an involuntary shiver.

(This has been happening more and more in the last few years, and Aziraphale has resolved to studiously ignore it.)

As always, they sit across from each other at the Ritz, a solitary candle giving off a warm orange glow. As always, Aziraphale takes his time with his meal, enjoying his exquisitely seared steak and scrumptious tiramisu. As always, Crowley drinks black coffee and watches him eat. 

(They have a routine, after all.)

Every so often, Aziraphale catches a fond smile at the edge of his demon’s lips, but it’s gone before he can really catalog its precise shape or meaning.

The restaurant seems to quiet around them when they’re enjoying dessert, and Aziraphale closes his eyes, pretending he’s savoring his last bite of coffee-soaked ladyfingers, but really savoring the peace of this moment, the knowledge that there will be countless more moments like this.

“Penny for your thoughts, angel?” Crowley asks, in that gentle voice he uses when he forgets that he’s supposed to be acerbic.

Aziraphale blinks, then looks at his demon, unable to help the tenderness that floods his eyes. “Just thinking about how I’ll still get to listen to Bach and keep my bookshop.”

Crowley smiles, unguarded, blinding. “Ah yes, I think you’d tire of celestial harmonies rather quickly. They’re bloody awful!”

“I hate to admit it, my dear,” Aziraphale says ruefully. “But celestial harmonies really are difficult on the ears. Even from Uriel, who has a lovely voice. It’s a shame, really.”

Crowley grins even more widely at Aziraphale, and the angel – well, ah, there it is. A rush of love so strong that Aziraphale has to grip his thigh to stop himself from dropping his wine glass. By all rights, his divine power should be enough to keep the wine glass whole even if he did drop it, but Aziraphale learned long ago that his miracle-making ability is no match for that traitorous thump in his heart.

Because unfortunately – or fortunately, depending upon your point of view – Aziraphale can always feel love when Crowley is around. He’s gotten used to the hum of energy beneath his skin when the demon comes strolling into his shop, hips going every which direction and sunglasses perched haphazardly on his nose. But he can never distinguish how much of that brimming emotion is his own love, all-encompassing and all-consuming and threatening to spill out of his every pore. There have been moments over the past 6,000 years when he’s thought that perhaps Crowley returns his more romantic affections – a saved bag of books and a shared bottle of wine and “You go too fast for me” – but he long ago convinced himself that that was most likely delusional. 

He is rather boring, after all, and Crowley is anything but.

When he has entertained the idea of Crowley feeling as he does, fear has stopped him. And he can say all he wants that he is afraid of what Heaven would do if they discovered their clandestine affair, how Hell would punish Crowley, how the delicate equilibrium his celestial status is based on would shatter. But really, that doesn’t scare him much at all. Not anymore. He’s already faced down both Heaven and Hell just to spend another day by Crowley’s side, and he’d do it again. He no longer feels any allegiance to the archangels who belittle him and are so attached to their superiority that they can’t fathom anything else.

The truth is, he is a coward, and he knows it. He is afraid of rejection. He is afraid of losing the only constant he’s ever known, the only thing in the universe that has never let him down. He is afraid of change, of falling, of burning.

And so, as he has done for centuries, he does nothing. He says nothing. He decides to simply let time pass, content with the status quo, with long lunches and drunken evenings in the bookshop and strolls through Soho. It has been enough for millennia, and it will be enough for millennia more.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

…

_2 Days After the World Didn't End_

Aziraphale opens the bookshop in the morning. He isn’t planning on selling anything – not even the apocalypse could change his view on the importance of keeping precious things in their rightful place – but he’s a creature of routine, and besides, it settles him to bustle around the shop, taking inventory of the new books Adam left for him and stroking the spines of his favorite classics. 

At about half-past noon, the doorbell chimes, and he looks up from his ledger, frowning at the thought of having to entertain a customer.

He grins when he sees it’s just Crowley, dressed in his signature black jeans (so tight it’d take a massive effort to get them off, not that Aziraphale has ever imagined that very thing) and sunglasses, sauntering in like he owns the place. “Oh _hello_ , my dear boy!” Aziraphale exclaims joyfully. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Crowley skims his elegant fingers across the books by the register, his expression inscrutable. “Nothing in particular,” he says breezily. “Just wanted to see how my favorite bookshop was doing.”

Aziraphale bounces on the balls of his feet, practically brimming with excitement. “Well, good thing you stopped by, then!” He says, rubbing his hands together with glee. “Adam added a great many books to my inventory, and I’ve been having an absolutely wonderful time cataloging them. Come along, let’s see!”

Crowley smiles, Aziraphale’s favorite indulgent smile, and the angel glows inwardly. He turns to the bookcase behind him, wondering where he should begin his tour. Perhaps the new collection of Charles Dickens? Or maybe Crowley would prefer to see the medieval art catalogs that Adam so helpfully left in his eastern-facing bookcase…

He dithers for a few minutes, deliberating different options and routes, realizing too late that it is far too quiet in the bookshop.

If Crowley is in the bookshop, that usually means there’s noise in the bookshop. It might be snarky comments about how Aziraphale’s organization system makes no sense, or cluttering and creative swearing as Crowley explores and runs into things, or the rustle of wings as Crowley stretches luxuriously. Aziraphale has gotten quite used to the low-level buzzing that accompanies Crowley’s presence – you might even say he’s grown fond of it. So for it to be completely silent, that means – that means – 

Something’s wrong.

Aziraphale swivels around slowly, carefully, scanning the bookshop for signs of his demon. Crowley is nowhere to be found in the immediate vicinity, and he starts to move through the shelves, searching. He feels for his wings, steeling himself to attack an intruder if necessary. He may not be a soldier of Heaven anymore, but he will always protect what is his.

After a few moments of fruitless looking, he finds Crowley tucked in a corner by a dusty window, curled into a small ball. He’s shaking, his narrow shoulders moving up and down, his wings tucked around himself, as if for protection.

For a second, Aziraphale isn’t sure what’s happening. Is Crowley laughing? Having some sort of manic breakdown? This shake of his shoulders isn’t familiar at all.

Aziraphale draws closer, moving as quietly as he can so as not to startle his prostrate demon, and then he realizes. With dawning horror, he realizes that Crowley is – he’s – crying. Crowley is crying.

Aziraphale has seen Crowley cry exactly three times. In Florence during the plague in the 14th century, kneeling over a girl who couldn’t have been more than six years old. In Vietnam, when the napalm destroyed everything in its path. In the bar right before the world didn't end, lips turned downward, bottle of gin empty.

And now. Now, in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Aziraphale stills, unsure what to do next. He suddenly feels desperate, helpless, so agonized that it tugs at him, deep in his stomach. Something is very wrong for his demon to be crying, but what should he do? His hands hover uselessly above Crowley’s prone form. He wishes he weren’t so soft – he wishes he were braver – he wishes he knew the right thing to say to fix this. He wants to fix this. He _needs_ to fix this.

Eventually, he settles for tentatively laying a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

He expects Crowley to jerk back, to shove him off, to snarl at him and storm out of the bookshop, as he has almost every time Aziraphale has shown him affection or concern. But instead, Crowley leans ever so slightly into his touch. It’s almost imperceptible, barely there, but Aziraphale feels it nonetheless.

“My dear,” he says gently. “Are you alright?”

Crowley doesn’t say anything, still breathing heavily, shoulders still heaving to and fro. His face is turned away from Aziraphale, but Aziraphale can see the clench in his jaw, the way he’s holding himself so tightly, as if he’s afraid that he’ll shatter if he lets go.

“My dear,” Aziraphale begins again. “Are you -”

“Am I _alright_?” Crowley spits out, his whole body tensing in one fluid motion. “Am I alright?”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Yes, dear, I believe that’s the standard question when –”

“No, for Hell’s sake, I am not _alright_ ,” Crowley continues, as if he hasn’t heard Aziraphale at all. “I am not anywhere close to alright, and it is _all your fault_.”

Aziraphale stiffens. “My fault? Crowley, if I upset you –"

“It’s all your fault because you had the nerve to get yourself _discorporated_ , but I didn’t know, and I came into this bookshop, and it was up in flames, and I – I – and I –” 

Crowley breaks off, gasping for breath, and Aziraphale’s heart constricts.

“I looked for you everywhere,” Crowley says, his voice a plaintive cry. “I couldn’t find you. You were just – gone, and I was still here. All alone.”

“Crowley, I’m so –” Aziraphale doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Neither of them says anything for a moment that seems to stretch for far longer, suffusing the air with regret and sorrow. Aziraphale stares at the side of Crowley’s face, trying to make sense of the jumbled mess of emotions welling in his throat. He’s angry at Heaven and Hell for causing Crowley this trauma, he’s disappointed in himself for not trusting Crowley when he had the chance, he’s confused and disoriented and unsure. He wishes he could see Crowley’s eyes. He wishes Crowley would look at him.

“I lost my best friend,” Crowley finally bites out. There’s such pain in his voice that Aziraphale feels his eyes filling with tears (oh, sweet, sweet Crowley). “I lost my best friend and then it didn’t feel like any of this was worth it anymore. Nothing was worth it anymore, not without my best friend.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly. (He could pretend that he didn’t know who Crowley was talking about, but that would be a lie.)

He hesitates for a moment, biting his lip and debating the pros and cons of such a bold move, as he is wont to do, before reaching for Crowley’s sunglasses. He stops himself just before his fingers touch the black frames, knowing Crowley will never forgive him if he does this without permission. Crowley gives a minute nod, and Aziraphale slowly takes the sunglasses off.

He turns Crowley’s face toward him, swallowing when he sees the tears clinging to Crowley’s eyelashes, the raw terror and hurt in his sunflower eyes. Gently, gently, he caresses Crowley’s cheeks, sweeping his fingers up and down, back and forth, as soothingly as he can manage.

“I didn’t know it had affected you so,” he whispers. “I don’t think I had quite put it together that you came to the bookshop when it was on fire. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Crowley tries to duck his head, as if embarrassed, but Aziraphale holds his gaze. He doesn’t want either of them to shy away from this moment. 

“But,” he continues, “I have always suspected that you were a soft-hearted serpent underneath it all, so this isn’t exactly a surprise.”

Crowley scowls at him, all messy hair and yellow eyes and clenched jaw, and Aziraphale feels the pang of fondness that is almost second-nature to him at this point. “Way to kick a demon when he’s down, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckles, smoothing Crowley’s hair back from his brow. There’s no bite in Crowley’s tone. “But you’re not down,” he corrects softly, with all the tenderness he possesses for his demon. “Not anymore.”

Crowley arches one eyebrow, his eyes liquid amber.

“You got me back,” Aziraphale says firmly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Crowley shudders, closing his eyes. He nods quickly, then again, as if to reassure himself that this is reality. Aziraphale slides his hands from his face to his neck, then to his shoulders, looping his arms around his demon. This is more touch than they usually indulge in, more points of contact than either of them would normally allow, but – things have changed, haven’t they?

Yes, things have changed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Aziraphale repeats. It feels important that Crowley knows. After all, he has spent too long pretending they don’t belong together. The least he can do is reassure Crowley that he knows better now.

So they sit on the floor for a long while, watching the endless stream of pedestrians through the window. The world keeps turning, and they hold each other. 

…

_5 Days After the World Didn't End_

Crowley disappears after his outburst. It’s not unusual, of course – he’s always tended to shy away after he feels he’s revealed too much. And Aziraphale copes with his absence like he always does: reading in his favorite nook by the window, making endless cups of tea, and trying not to wonder where his demon is or if he’s okay.

Crowley appears in the bookshop three days later – a much shorter interval than ever before. Aziraphale sternly tells himself not to read into this. It’s not as if the world not ending has changed anything.

(For Crowley, at least. For Aziraphale, everything has turned on its axis, and the only thing that keeps him grounded is those eyes, that smirk, _those eyes_.)

Crowley breezes in with his typical aplomb, banging the door open and shouting, “Oi, angel! You in here?”

Aziraphale puts down the book he was reading – a splendid first edition of _A Tale of Two_ Cities, oh, that fellow Charles was so bright! – and smiles at Crowley. Sometimes it occurs to him that he should perhaps not be so obvious about his affections, but it’s such a pleasure to let his love shine through after so long of tamping it down. And he’s never been one to deny himself a pleasure.

“Oi, angel!” Crowley says again. “Tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

Aziraphale looks at his friend (his confidante, his sunshine when skies are gray, his true north, his other half). After 6,000 years, he’s learned the signs of when Crowley is merely faking confidence, but he’s also learned not to mention it. Crowley is shifting from foot to foot, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting to and fro behind his glasses. He’s clearly still antsy in the bookshop, clearly still reliving both his breakdown a few days ago and the fire that started it all.

Aziraphale could say something, he knows. He could ask Crowley if he’s alright, or promise again that he’s here and isn’t going anywhere, or give him a hug. He could do a million things to acknowledge how scared and broken Crowley seemed the other day. But he knows that if he does that, Crowley will shut down completely.

So he only smiles. “I’d love lunch, my dear.”

They head to the tiny Italian restaurant down the street that is their haven when they’re trying to avoid being seen. It’s cozy and intimate, perfect for the grey sky and rain streaking the windows.

Aziraphale eats pasta and they drink a vintage bottle of Cabernet, and then Crowley says, apropos of nothing, “I think we should go to the country.”

“Oh, that would be delightful!” Aziraphale responds immediately, clapping his hands with glee. “Maybe tomorrow – a picnic would be miserable in today’s weather, and I think the rain is supposed to let up overnight.”

The wheels in his brain are already turning – it’s been so long since they went on a proper picnic! Perhaps he could stop by the bakery down the street and grab some strawberry tarts for them, and a baguette that would go perfectly with the brie he has in his fridge. He already has the tartan blanket they’d need, and he has just the right bottle of champagne in his wine cellar. Oh, and there’s a book he’s been meaning to read, and perhaps Crowley won’t mind if he naps while – 

“I don’t mean for a picnic,” Crowley cuts in curtly.

Aziraphale stares at him, confused and a bit put-off. Crowley sounds almost…annoyed? Yes, that tone is definitely Crowley’s “annoyed” tone. But no, that’s not possible. Crowley is hardly ever _truly_ annoyed with him. Oh, he’ll feign peevishness when Aziraphale takes too long to pick a restaurant, or roll his eyes dramatically when Aziraphale complains about him driving too fast, but he’s only been really annoyed with him a couple of times. That time at the bandstand comes to mind, of course, and outside his bookshop, screaming about Alpha Centauri. Aziraphale deserved his wrath then.

Has he done something wrong now?

Crowley must see Aziraphale’s angst in his eyes, because his face softens somewhat, and he says again, gently this time, “I don’t mean for a picnic. I mean I think we should move to the country.”

Aziraphale stares at him. “Move to the country?” He repeats, sure that he sounds as dumb as he feels.

Crowley nods. 

Aziraphale continues staring at him. “My dear,” he says. “Together?”

Crowley nods, biting his lip, his telltale nervous tic. It makes Aziraphale realize that this conversation is about much more than a simple move, and he finds himself wishing that he could see Crowley’s eyes. Crowley must be able to read his mind, though, because he takes his sunglasses off.

His eyes flicker in the candlelight, and in them, Aziraphale can read all the things he and Crowley aren’t ready to say yet but are trying to communicate anyway: _Come be with me. Come live out the rest of our lives together. No matter what the future holds or what we may be to each other, I know that my place is next to you. Come with me._

Aziraphale doesn’t need time to think about it, really. He thought he might feel adrift now that Heaven has cut him off, but Crowley has kept him anchored.

(Crowley has always kept him anchored.)

So he nods. “That sounds perfect.”

…

It goes very quickly, after that. It turns out Crowley has already purchased a cottage (it occurs to Aziraphale that he should admonish him for his presumptuousness, but he can’t be bothered when he is almost unbearably touched), complete with space for a garden and a library just waiting to be filled with books. 

They pack up his flat and Aziraphale’s bookshop, and barely five days after their first conversation about the subject, it’s time for them to get in the Bentley and drive to the South Downs.

…

_10 Days After the World Didn't End_

Their first day in their new cottage, Aziraphale discovers there’s only one bed. 

Of course, he could miracle another bed. Crowley probably wouldn’t even notice. But something stops him. Perhaps it’s the inviting navy blue duvet and cream-colored sheets, a harmony of his and the demon’s diverging tastes. Perhaps it’s the twin nightstands and lamps, the bible in one and _Paradise Lost_ in the other. Or perhaps it’s the way the bed looks too big for just one person, looks like it was made for sneaking in close and breathing each other in.

Whatever it is, he can’t bring himself to add another bed, so he doesn’t.

They spend the day bickering over where all of Aziraphale’s books should go and planting wisterias for Crowley to glower at. They paint the walls a cheery light blue – Crowley complains that they should just use their powers, and then laments his past as a demon who “wouldn’t be caught in Hell with blue walls” – and move the couch around the living room five times before they’re satisfied with the feng shui. They order in Thai food and eat on their dining room floor, drinking far too much and listening to the wind in the trees. It’s perfect.

But finally, it’s time for bed.

They dither for a while, methodically putting away their trash and tidying their sparse living room. They head upstairs, their footsteps muffled on the wooden stairs, and Aziraphale can feel Crowley behind him, can smell that unique combination of brimstone, pine needles, and a touch of lavender.

How odd. How…lovely.

The queen bed looms large before them, but Aziraphale refuses to make a fuss; he snaps his fingers, miracling himself a soft pair of tartan pajamas, and climbs under the covers, not looking in Crowley’s direction. After a quiet moment, he finds that even though he doesn’t need to breathe, he’s very purposely holding his breath, afraid that he will make a noise that will give him away. He catches himself keeping very still.

He can feel Crowley hesitating, but before he can think of something to say to alleviate the tension that is suddenly stifling, Crowley says lightly, “I’m going to take a shower if that’s alright.”

“Of course!” Aziraphale says hastily, gulping.

He doesn’t watch as Crowley goes into the bathroom, but he hears the shower turning on, and before he can protect himself, he’s assailed by vivid images of Crowley in the shower. He’s never seen it in reality, but his imagination does the work for him: scattered snapshots, chaotic bursts of light and color running through his mind. He sees rivulets of water running down Crowley’s lean, bare chest, his head tilted back, the long lines of his neck exposed and inviting, his strong legs planted firmly on the floor, his…his…his…

Aziraphale bites his lip. He’s seen Crowley naked a handful of times – humanity wasn’t always so touchy about nudity, and celestial and occult beings don’t pay their corporeal forms much attention anyway. But he hasn’t seen the demon naked since long before he realized that he was in love with him, and now he realizes that he very much would like to.

He closes his eyes, shuts them tight. He wishes he were brave enough to join Crowley, to just walk into the bathroom, directly into the shower, and kiss him. He wishes he were brave enough to do something about the gnawing ache in his chest, the constant reminder that he wants more, more, more. He wishes he were brave enough to admit that their fragile peace is all he has ever needed.

But then, he’s never been very brave, has he?

(Not even when it counts.) 

Several agonizing moments pass, and then, Aziraphale hears the water turning off. He faintly catches the slide of Crowley’s towel through his hair, the light patter of his feet on the tile, and that’s all the preparation he has before – Crowley’s steps are muffled by the carpet, he’s climbing into bed with him, the sheets rustling, the duvet skating across his sensitive skin, and Aziraphale is hyper-aware of his demon’s every movement, his every traitorous nerve ending alight and wanting.

They’ve slept in the same bed many times before – drunken nights crashing fully clothed on top of the covers, binging marathons ending in a cluster of sheets, sharing cramped corners after narrowly escaping discorporation – but this. This feels different.

This feels…dangerous.

Aziraphale wonders what Crowley would do if he leaned over and kissed him. Would he shrink from him in disgust? Would he scoff at him and say, “Oi, angel, I’m a demon, you know we don’t go in for that sort of thing”? Would he gently reject him, but reject him all the same?

Aziraphale doesn’t know, and he doesn’t have the courage to find out. 

Crowley finds Aziraphale’s hand under the covers and entwines their fingers, squeezing lightly. Aziraphale knows he means it as a comfort, but all it does is make him wonder what those rough, calloused palms would feel like sliding over other parts of him. He swallows, hard.

Oh, dear. He is so gone. 

Crowley turns over once, twice.

“Goodnight, Aziraphale,” he says softly.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” Aziraphale returns, and then he closes his eyes and tries to forget that he is in the same bed as the only person he has ever loved in the truest sense of the word.

But it’s fruitless. Aziraphale doesn’t think he sleeps at all the whole night.

...

They make a habit of sleeping together from then on, and waking up with Crowley, tangled together, just breathing as the world comes alive, becomes Aziraphale’s favorite part of living together.

…

They settle into a routine of sorts.

They wake when they feel like it – Crowley’s always been more of an early riser than Aziraphale, who may not indulge in sleep as frequently but who loves to lounge in bed when he does – and Crowley makes coffee and tea, catching up on the news of the day. Aziraphale eventually shuffles out in his tartan robe (which Crowley kindly does not make fun of – much) and whips up a quick breakfast. They sit at the table, eating their pancakes or bacon and discussing their options for activities for the day.

They go to the beach when the clouds are low and it’s not too hot, skipping rocks and dipping their feet in the water. Crowley seems most at peace by the sea, Aziraphale thinks; his face relaxes, and he never wears his sunglasses, his eyes gleaming golden in the brackish light. They bring a picnic lunch, snacking on salami and brie, stretched out on a blanket and talking about anything and everything. 

Crowley creates a beautiful garden and tends to it when the sun is out; Aziraphale sits in the nook and reads by the window, occasionally popping his head out to smile indulgently at Crowley’s newest creative insults directed at his plants. He likes to look at the back of Crowley’s neck as he plants, at the ripple of the muscles in his shoulders as he bends his sinuous body to and fro. Their wisteria blooms madly, luxuriously, and if Aziraphale tiptoes out to the garden when Crowley is napping to whisper words of encouragement to the delicate buds – well, no one needs to know, yes?

Rainy days are Aziraphale’s favorite: they stay inside all day, vintage records spinning in a loop and heated games of Scrabble contested. They binge several seasons of _Queer Eye_ – “Crowley, I do love that Jonathan individual, he has quite the celestial touch” – and _The Great British Baking Show –_ “I wish Paul would not be so hard on David, he’s only a lad!” They curl up on their couch with hot chocolate – the richest dark chocolate from the hills of Bolivia, which Crowley had “zipped out” for one day because Aziraphale had mentioned he missed it – and talk about ineffability, about Gabriel and Beezelbub, about Adam and Anathema.

They don’t interact with the other villagers much, but they don’t mind. It’s enough to know that Heaven and Hell have left them alone for now, that the humans get to keep being humans, in all their chaotic, awful, beautiful, ineffable glory.

That the world keeps turning.

When the sun sets, they sit on their porch and watch as day transitions into night, as inky blue gradually takes over the endless sky. When it’s fully dark, their little slice of heaven quiet and calm, Crowley tells stories of the stars he hung, of the constellations he created, of the meteors he watched flare into being. Aziraphale listens with rapt interest, his angelic heart almost bursting with the force of his fondness for this beautiful, broken demon who has somehow let him try to mend the damage his Fall had done. 

They make dinner most nights, making their way through Chrissy Teigen’s _Cravings_ cookbook (Crowley guffaws for minutes on end when Aziraphale confesses that he has no idea what it means to be an influencer but he enjoys Chrissy’s authenticity on that “Instagram thing”) and indulging in every delicacy the countryside has to offer. As always, Crowley doesn’t eat much, but for once, Aziraphale doesn’t feel embarrassed about it. He can tell by Crowley’s barely perceptible smile that he luxuriates in settling at the table and watching his angel eat. 

Sometimes they stay up late for no reason at all, drinking bottle after bottle of ridiculously expensive wine, getting so sloshed that they’re slurring their words and making no sense. They giggle for hours on end, regaling each other with stories of their travels over the last few millennia, always trying to strengthen the invisible ties that bind them. They’re touchier when they’re like this, less careless with the boundaries that have always been unspoken but known. A hand on a thigh, shoulders bumping, legs thrown carelessly over each other’s. Fingers running through hair, so comforting Aziraphale could cry.

They always go to sleep together, no matter what. They’ve never talked about it, but Aziraphale suspects that neither of them likes to sleep alone. It’s comforting to feel Crowley beside him, the same weight night after night. They’ve taken to cuddling, too – Crowley would never call it that, but there’s no other word for the way he drapes himself over Aziraphale as if he can’t get close enough – and neither of them brings it up.

Every night, Aziraphale falls asleep with so much love welling in his throat that he feels like he can’t possibly contain it all. And every morning, he wakes to Crowley.

Altogether, it’s a bliss Aziraphale has truly never known. He didn’t realize how heavy a burden the Apocalypse was. He didn’t realize how even before that, he was questioning his place, questioning Heaven’s intentions, questioning the Great Plan. He didn’t realize that what he needed was to be known, to be understood.

To be loved.

And he is loved, he knows that. Even if it’s not quite the shade of love he wishes it were, he knows he is loved. Deeply, unconditionally. Without shame and without agenda. He feels it every day, in every moment.

…

_25 Days After the World Didn't End_

Sometimes, Aziraphale has nightmares.

Aziraphale thinks he might have always had the capacity for nightmares, but he never knew. He sleeps regularly now, though – he’s surprised to find that he rather likes sleeping, although that probably has more to do with being in close proximity with his demon than with any REM cycles – so he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that one day he wakes up shouting, tremors wracking his whole body, his eyes wide and unseeing.

The first time it happens, he’s rather alarmed. He’s having a particularly pleasant dream about walking along the sea with Crowley, and suddenly he’s wrenched into what looks like the Tadfield airfield, but this time Satan is dragging Crowley down into that gaping hole, and Aziraphale is running towards him, but he can’t reach him, he can’t get to him in time, and all of a sudden Crowley is gone, and he’s screaming, he’s screaming, sorrow and fear and regret, and he can’t – 

He doesn’t recognize what’s happening right away – in hindsight, he’s never heard himself scream before – but once he realizes that it’s _him_ making that sound, he blindly reaches out for Crowley. It’s an instinct, something he’s seen in movies, and he’s not sure if it’ll work to quell the absolute _terror_ flooding his whole corporation, but he has no idea what else to do.

(It worked for Crowley when Crowley was crying in his bookshop, anyway, and holding his demon isn’t a hardship.)

Crowley doesn’t wake up immediately, but just his proximity makes Aziraphale’s shivering slightly less pronounced, and he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face into his demon’s neck. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s even breaths on his skin, and he feels a rush of fierce protectiveness that almost knocks him over. Whoever – whatever – ever tries to take Crowley away from him will be _decimated._

After a moment, Crowley stirs awake; Aziraphale can feel his eyelashes as he blinks rapidly. He must be confused as to why Aziraphale is curled so tightly into him that he can’t tell where one of them ends and the other one begins, but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he winds his arms around Aziraphale, tentatively at first, then more assuredly as Aziraphale only burrows deeper into his hold. Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut tighter, trying to focus on what he knows to be true: they’re in their cottage in the South Downs. He’s in their bed. The fan is going above their heads. They are far away from anything that can hurt them. Heaven and Hell have left them alone. They’re okay. They’re together. Everything is as it should be.

After a few moments of this inner monologue, Crowley’s arms anchoring him to the here and now, Aziraphale’s breathing slows, and his trembling ceases entirely.

Crowley presses a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head, so light and offhanded that Aziraphale sighs, that telltale affection rising in his throat.

“You’re okay,” Crowley whispers, running a soothing hand up and down Aziraphale’s spine. “You’re okay, I’m right here, we’re okay, nothing is going to happen to you, I promise, I’ve got you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fill with tears. His tender, precious, _gentle_ demon. Always there for him, always trying to fix the damage that Heaven has wrought, always making sure they come out the other side, always holding him when everything falls apart. And he’d gone and taken that friendship and love for granted. How stupid he’d been.

He sniffles, trying not to be self-conscious about his wild display of emotion (he prides himself on always keeping composed, but lately he’s been trying to let his guard down with his favorite person). “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Aziraphale can feel Crowley frown above him. “What do you mean? It’s not Heaven that’s frightening you?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, twisting his hands in the front of Crowley’s sleep shirt to keep himself from letting out a sob. “No, I haven’t been scared of them in a while.”

Crowley pulls back just slightly, rearranging them so they’re facing each other. Fragile morning light is beginning to seep in through the gauze curtains on their bedroom windows – it’s just barely dawn – and his eyes are liquid gold, almost unbearably soft. Lying side by side like this, legs intertwined, Crowley’s hands resting on his hips, their faces so close their noses are almost touching, Aziraphale feels like he can finally breathe again.

“Then what is it?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale takes a deep, shuddering breath. Crowley waits patiently, his eyes steady and sure. Aziraphale supposes he’s had enough practice with Aziraphale’s reticence to know by now that filling the silence won’t prompt him to reveal anything. Giving him time and space to figure out his words is usually the best route.

(As usual, Crowley knows him better than he ever intended him to.)

Finally, Aziraphale admits, “My nightmares are usually about losing you.”

Crowley’s brow wrinkles in sympathy (he would never call it that, but Aziraphale knows better). “Oh, _Aziraphale –”_

Aziraphale shakes his head fervently, fisting his hands tighter in the collar of Crowley’s shirt. “No, no, you don’t need to do that, it’s just –” His voice cuts off in a sob that he can’t keep in.

“Yes?” Crowley prompts after a moment, his thumbs tracing delicate circles on Aziraphale's face. He holds his head like it’s something valuable.

Aziraphale shudders. “It’s just – the Tadfield Airfield. Satan coming up. I just can’t stop seeing it. If it had all gone wrong and he had taken you…I couldn’t bear it.”

Crowley nods, his eyes sad suddenly, and Aziraphale can tell he’s remembering the time he thought Aziraphale was gone. “I know what you mean,” he whispers, agonized. “When the bookshop was on fire and I thought you were really and truly gone, I didn’t know how I would survive it. It was just –”

Crowley can’t finish, and Aziraphale can tell the thought is so painful he can’t breathe for a moment. And even though they’ve had this conversation before, even though he’s reassured his demon that he’s here and not going anywhere, he understands why this still plagues Crowley. A world without Crowley would be no world at all.

Crowley wraps his arms around him again. “But nothing happened to us. We’re here now,” he breathes, a bit of awe in his voice. “I’m here now.”

Aziraphale nods. “Promise?” He whispers, and he wishes he could help the vulnerability in his voice, but it’s there, and maybe it’ll always be there, this fear that he might lose the most important thing in his world. 

“I can’t promise nothing will ever happen to me,” Crowley says honestly, smoothing Aziraphale’s damp hair back from his feverish brow, and Aziraphale doesn’t resist the impulse to lean into his touch. “But I can promise that I will always be here when you wake up.”

Aziraphale looks up at him, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He knows he must look so fragile, so scared, and the unequivocal loyalty in Crowley’s eyes has Aziraphale bracing himself against the tide of love that floods him. “Always?”

“Always,” Crowley says firmly.

Aziraphale nods, biting his lip. He closes his eyes and burrows back into Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s warm breaths stuttering over his skin, and without thinking he twines their fingers together, letting the feeling of Crowley’s hand in his dispel the last vestiges of terror.

“Always,” Crowley repeats. “Always.”

Crowley keeps whispering it, stroking Aziraphale’s hair, holding him close, until his breathing has slowed and he’s at peace once more.

…

After that, Crowley seems to know what to do when Aziraphale has a nightmare. Aziraphale wakes up shouting or screaming, flashes of holy water and Satan streaking through his mind, and Crowley pulls him into the tightest hug possible. He whispers a stream of comfort, variations of “I’m here” and “You’ll never lose me” and “We’ll be together always.” Crowley cradles Aziraphale in his arms, rocking him back and forth as the angel’s breathing slows, little by little. Sometimes they talk about the substance of the nightmare when Aziraphale has calmed down, but often they merely linger in silence until Aziraphale can go back to sleep.

Sometimes, Aziraphale can tell that Crowley worries it’s not enough. Sometimes, Aziraphale can tell, Crowley worries that he can’t possibly fix the damage that Heaven and Hell have done to his angel. Sometimes, Crowley asks Aziraphale if he needs anything – tea, wine, chocolate, a bad movie. 

Always, Aziraphale says, “I just need you.”

…

Crowley has nightmares sometimes, too. His are usually about Heaven taking Aziraphale away in the dead of the night; he wakes up clutching so tightly to Aziraphale that he’d be cutting off his circulation if that were metaphysically possible.

But Aziraphale knows exactly what to do the first time it happens (after all, he’s learned from the best). He rearranges them so he can look Crowley directly in the eye, and he simply says, “I’m here.”

He holds Crowley’s gaze until Crowley’s pulse has settled, and they stay like that until one of them falls asleep.

Aziraphale is grateful that after all this time, they’ve finally figured out how to be there for each other.

…

_40 Days After the World Didn't End_

About a month after they move into their cottage, Aziraphale takes a nap in the afternoon, lulled into sleep by a particularly dull Sherlock Holmes novel and the rhythmic breathing of Crowley next to him on their faded grey couch. He dreams of Alpha Centauri, a bandstand, holy water, Rome, the airfield. A million moments.

A lifetime of longing.

He awakens to soft blue light. His eyes find the window, streaked with rain. It’s completely, utterly silent in the cottage. Peaceful.

He rolls over, throwing out a hand to the other side of the bed. Empty. Oh, how curious. He was so sure he’d fallen asleep on the couch…

The heart he only has in theory squeezes painfully. Crowley must have put him to bed. 

He slowly pulls himself to his feet, shrugging on his robe and his slippers. He strains his ears, searching for any sign of his demon. But their house is still, giving nothing away.

He tiptoes through the hallway, finds Crowley standing in the kitchen, nursing a mug of steaming tea at the edge of the cabinetS, where the window meets the open sky. There’s a pot of something that smells like tomato soup simmering on the stove. Crowley is looking out at the stars, probably tracing the constellations, and he’s bathed in the soft yellow light from the lamps around him.

He’s beautiful.

Aziraphale stops for a moment, leaning against the doorway, just watching him. He’s sure Crowley can feel his presence, but he doesn’t mind. They have very few secrets any more (except the rather large one that Aziraphale has been keeping for going on a century, of course), and yet it still takes his breath away to see his demon like this. Sweatpants and henley instead of his trademark tight jeans and black v-neck, sunglasses nowhere to be found, stripped of all his defenses and pretenses. Just Crowley, just the person who has made a home in Aziraphale’s soul.

It’s a privilege and a blessing to see him like this, and Aziraphale doesn’t take it for granted anymore.

Without thinking too much about it, Aziraphale walks up to Crowley and wraps his arms around his back, pressing his face to his shirt. He’s breaking all his own rules, but Crowley is so warm and the soup smells so good and no one has ever taken care of him like this.

“Smells good,” he says lightly, thinking almost involuntarily that he’d stay wrapped around Crowley like this for as long as the demon would let him. 

Crowley merely hums in response, and Aziraphale closes his eyes, so content he could fall asleep all over again.

“Thank you,” he says after another long moment, “For everything.”

_Thank you for knowing we were on our own side when I didn’t. Thank you for fighting to stay with me even when you weren’t sure if I was fighting to stay with you. Thank you for never giving up on me._

Crowley twists in his arms to face him, his eyes the lightest he’s ever seen them, so unguarded that Aziraphale sways toward him. “Of course,” Crowley says, skimming his lips across his forehead and then leaning down to touch his forehead to his, their breath mingling together. “You forget we stared down Armageddon together. This is nothing.”

Aziraphale smiles. Ever since they moved into this cottage, it feels as if they’ve been moving toward something, something he can’t quite grasp. He thinks he should feel scared – after all, any minute change in his relationship with Crowley has traditionally left him off-kilter, disoriented and confused. He’s still not sure if Crowley feels the same shade of love he does, but here, in the home they’ve built together, in the _life_ they’ve built together, he can’t feel anything but peace.

They stay like that for a long, long time, and for the first time, Aziraphale lets himself hope.

_…_

_50 Days After the World Didn't End_

Anathema, Newt, and Adam and the Them visit Aziraphale and Crowley about a month and a half after they move into the cottage. Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy wanted to come, too, but they’re off on an extravagant trip searching for witches in northern Ireland.

They pass the weekend visit gardening, skipping rocks by the sea cliffs, and baking far too many lemon squares. It’s exquisitely pleasant, a distinct feeling of home suffusing their every moment together, and Aziraphale basks in the absolute rightness of it all. After millennia of questioning his place in the universe, he’s finally exactly where he was meant to be. 

Their last morning together, Crowley, Newt, and Adam and the Them decide to take the Bentley for a spin, and Aziraphale and Anathema sit and have tea in the kitchen.

“How’s it been settling into the cottage?” Anathema asks as they’re enjoying their chamomile tea and watching the wisteria trees outside sway in the breeze.

“Oh, it’s been wonderful!” Aziraphale answers easily. “It’s so lovely to be away from the city. I didn’t realize how much more peaceful it would be out here, but we’ve really enjoyed being able to see the stars and having it be so quiet all the time. Crowley loves his garden, of course, and I’m enjoying having so much free time to catch up on my reading.”

Anathema smiles at him, a pure, lovely thing. “It’s good to see you guys together like this. I always thought it should be like this.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, ready to offer his typical rebuttal that he and Crowley aren’t “like that,” that humans couldn’t possibly understand the complex bond they share, that romance is far too crude a word to describe the depth of their connection. But he stops himself. Aren’t he and Crowley together? Aren’t they how they should have always been?

They are. Of course they are. They were only ever apart because they had to be. 

“You know,” he says thoughtfully. “I always thought it should be like this, too.”

They sip their tea in companionable silence, and when Crowley, Newt, and Adam come crashing into the cottage, yelling over each other about going 45 kilometers per hour and almost hitting pedestrians several times, Aziraphale grins broadly. He catches his demon’s eye, and when Crowley winks at him, he doesn’t hide his blush.

He’s so glad it’s like this now.

…

_75 Days After the World Didn't End_

They celebrate Christmas just the two of them. Neither of them subscribes to any particular religion, as it were, but they both like the traditions associated with the Christian holiday, so they make an event out of it.

They decorate a tree with gaudy ornaments, Crowley contributing several black orbs (“black like my heart,” he sneers gleefully, and Aziraphale kindly refrains from calling him out on that blatant lie), the string of lights twinkling merrily. They banter back and forth over whether they should have an angel or a demon as a tree-topper, before they finally just put both toppers on them (“Our side,” Aziraphale proclaims, and delights in the blush that steals over Crowley’s cheeks). Carolers show up on their doorstep every so often, and Crowley grouches and moans before joining Aziraphale, his voice ringing out in perfect pitch. 

Aziraphale bakes different kinds of Christmas cookies every day of December (he’s following Ina Garten’s recipes because he definitely agrees that Madagascar vanilla is _essential_ ). He uses Crowley as a taste tester; Crowley obviously doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but he’s a very willing participant in Aziraphale’s experiments, and the cottage always smells of vanilla and ginger. In return, Aziraphale samples every type of mulled wine imaginable so that Crowley can perfect his recipe from the 2nd century.

Christmas Day dawns with a fresh blanket of white snow, the weak English sunshine glittering and crystallizing on the drifts on their doorstep. Everything is quiet and serene, and Aziraphale pads downstairs in his red and green tartan pajamas.

He sees Crowley sitting at the base of their Christmas tree dressed in a matching set of tartan pajamas, and he is so overwhelmed by affection that his throat closes for a moment. 

Crowley looks down at himself sheepishly. “Angel, don’t you dare.”

Aziraphale smiles fondly. “My dear, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They open presents for each other leisurely, playing old Christmas carols and eating the cookies Aziraphale left out for Santa (humans have the most delightful traditions, don’t they?). Aziraphale exclaims with joy at the first-edition books Crowley clearly took great pains to find, and Crowley hides a smile at the hand-stitched leather gloves and designer sunglasses Aziraphale has carefully wrapped in red gift paper.

After all the presents have been exchanged, Crowley unceremoniously drops an unmarked brown box in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale stares down at it, dumbfounded. 

He looks up at Crowley, who is sitting unnaturally still. “My dear, what is this?”

Crowley shrugs. “Just open it, you’ll see.” 

Aziraphale raises a questioning eyebrow, but Crowley doesn’t say anything else, so Aziraphale slowly takes the lid off the box, reaching in to discover what feels like...another book?

“Crowley, if it’s a book why did you bother -”

“Just open the goddamn gift, angel,” Crowley says gruffly.

Aziraphale tsks disapprovingly but does as he’s told, carefully pulling the book out of the box. At first glance, the book looks like any other. It has what looks like a burnished gold finish, with no title, no author, and nothing on the spine or the back cover.

He looks up at Crowley, but his stubborn demon is giving nothing away.

Regardless, he treats the book as reverently as he treats any book that he’s lucky enough to possess: he strokes the spine, runs his fingers over the front cover, feels its heft in his hands. He can’t tell when it might have been published, and he finds no clues for what it might be about. 

He opens the book, and on the first page there are two words: “Our Story."

He feels his eyes begin to fill with tears, so he keeps his gaze resolutely on the page. If this is what he thinks it is, he’s about to start crying in earnest, and he knows that will only embarrass Crowley.

He turns the page, and the chapter title, “In Which an Angel and Demon Meet and Everything Changes” hits him hard. Because that _is_ what happened, isn’t it? Before he met Crowley, his existence was straightforward: he was loyal to God and Heaven, and he didn’t think about much, or question much. It was an easy and uncomplicated existence, but it was also boring, devoid of challenges and color, and certainly empty of feeling at all. He met Crowley, and suddenly he felt things he’d never had a reason to feel, questioned things he’d never had a reason to question, and experienced more than he ever would have experienced on his own.

Crowley changed him entirely. And he’s always known Crowley had changed his existence for good, but he’s never known it more viscerally than he does right now.

He pages through the book, catching snippets of different chapter titles - “In Which an Angel and a Demon Debate Whether The Flood was a Good Idea,” “In Which an Angel and Demon Have Oysters in Rome,” and “In Which an Angel and Demon Take Care of a Child for 11 Long Years,” to name a few - and lines that make him both want to cry and smile - “The demon was usually annoyed by the angel, but it was the kind of fond annoyance where you don’t want to be with anyone else” and “The angel and demon often argued about the metaphysical realities of God, Heaven, and Hell, usually with many bottles of wine and too many tangents.” 

The detail with which Crowley has chronicled their six millennia together renders Aziraphale nearly speechless. He can _feel_ the affection imbued in every word, the care with which Crowley has written out their interactions and the threads that have made up their complicated relationship. He already knows that this will be the most precious book he ever owns. 

He looks up at Crowley, who hasn’t moved. Anxiety is radiating out of the demon’s pores; he sits rigidly, the way he does when he doesn’t know what comes next and isn’t sure he’s going to like it.

Aziraphale smiles at him. It’s wobbly, but it’s more sincere than he thinks any other smile he’s ever worn has been. “You wrote our story?” He asks, wonder seeping into the words.

Crowley shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not a big deal, angel,” he says, and it’s clear that he’d like to downplay the significance of his gift as much as possible.

But Aziraphale can’t - won’t - do that anymore. They’ve spent too long pretending the gestures of devotion between them don’t mean anything, pretending they’re just colleagues, just two people forced into a situation that neither of them is comfortable with. He can’t do that to Crowley anymore. He doesn’t want to.

“My dear,” he says, his voice watery. He reaches out and grabs Crowley’s hand. As usual, his skin is a few degrees warmer than a human’s; as usual, it feels divine in a way Aziraphale would prefer not to examine. “It is a big deal. I am so beyond touched that you took the time to do this. This is the most special thing that anyone has ever done for me. Thank you so much. I’m going to read this over and over again.”

Crowley scowls, making a protesting noise, but his cheeks are turning a remarkable shade of fuschia. “You are such a cheeseball.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Cheeseball? What is a cheeseball? There’s no cheese here, why are we talking about cheese? Oh, should we get cheese? That would be lovely, let me - ”

Crowley squeezes his hand, a fond smile creeping over his face, and Aziraphale finds himself suddenly unable to speak. 

“I’m glad you like it, angel,” Crowley says quietly, his eyes wide and honest, so vulnerable it almost hurts to look at him. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Of course I like it,” he says. “I love it, I really do.”

Crowley nods bashfully, and Aziraphale feels his human heart double in size. “Of course, your presence is the greatest gift of all,” he says teasingly.

Crowley just shakes his head, but he can’t hide the joy in his face, and Aziraphale is glad.

After a moment of contented silence, Aziraphale puts the book on the floor and pulls a folder out of his back pocket. “My turn!” He says excitedly, clapping his hands together.

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Angel, you didn’t have to -”

“Of course I had to,” Aziraphale says impatiently. “Don’t be silly.”

He extends the folder, which he carefully labeled “Aziraphale and Crowley’s Next Big Adventure” with a black Sharpie, to Crowley.

After a moment’s hesitation, Crowley takes the folder and opens it, and Aziraphale watches as he flips through its contents: two round-trip plane tickets to Thailand; plane tickets to Bali, Vienna, Sydney, and countless other cities; printouts about Cape Town and Lake Como and Tokyo; reservations for hostels and five-star hotels (and restaurants of course); meticulous itineraries with space for Crowley’s input; frames for pictures; and much more.

Crowley doesn’t say anything after several moments, his eyes fixed on the folder as if he doesn’t know how to process what he’s seeing.

“I thought we could take a big trip,” Aziraphale explains haltingly when he can’t take it anymore, Crowley’s uncharacteristic silence making him self-conscious about his gift. “See all the places we’ve only gotten to visit alone, go to all the cities we were afraid to be seen together, potentially really anger Heaven and Hell, all that jazz.”

He giggles nervously, a pit settling in his stomach when Crowley doesn’t even blink an eye at his colloquialism.

A couple of moments pass and Crowley still hasn’t looked up. “My dear,” Aziraphale ventures, trying not to let his hesitation bleed into his voice. “Is everything alright?”

Crowley visibly gulps, eyes still on the folder. “You’d want to take a trip like that with me?”

Aziraphale stares at him. It’s moments like this that make him realize just how much he has taken Crowley for granted over the years - just how much he’s failed to show Crowley that their partnership means the world to him.

“My dear,” he says, reaching out to cover Crowley’s hand with his (they touch so much more than they used to, and Aziraphale is glad), locking eyes with Crowley. “When the world was ending, the worst thing I could think of was that I’d never get to talk to you again. Who else could I possibly want to go on a trip with?”

Crowley’s answering smile is watery, but Aziraphale doesn’t call him out on it. He’s just happy he could make Crowley smile like that.

All in all, it’s the best Christmas he’s ever had.

…

_81 Days After the World Didn't End_

They ring in New Year’s Eve with a Dom Perignon from 1865 and cheese Crowley went to Paris to get (obviously Aziraphale’s favorite). They sit out on their porch and watch the village fireworks, tucked under mounds of blankets and surrounded by the perfectly brisk night air. Crowley’s feet are buried in Aziraphale’s lap, his whole bony frame pressed against Aziraphale's soft one, and Aziraphale thinks he has never felt so complete.

“Have we ever been together on New Year’s?” He asks lightly, running a hand through Crowley’s hair. They both pretend Crowley doesn’t shiver at the contact.

Crowley hums. “I don’t think so? New Year’s is a big time for demons, we’re always trying to disrupt people’s resolutions. So I was usually off somewhere wreaking havoc.”

Aziraphale nods. “Ah yes, my dear, that makes sense. I was usually off doing the opposite.”

He smiles, a pure, soft thing. “It is quite lovely to be relieved of that duty and to be able to do what I want to do.”

Aziraphale feels Crowley still. He wonders what he’s said to put his demon on edge, but then – 

“And what you want to do is be with me?” Crowley asks, his voice uncharacteristically small and uncertain. 

Aziraphale strokes his hair more purposefully, hoping Crowley can sense his conviction and commitment. Even if Crowley never wants to be romantically and sexually involved the way he wishes they were, he’d still want to be with him, just like this. “Yes, it is,” he says. “I love our life here. I love this new beginning we’re making. It’s perfect.”

Crowley’s breath catches as if he might cry, and Aziraphale continues because he needs Crowley to know this. He’s still not certain whether Crowley loves him the way he loves Crowley, but he knows that Crowley wants to be with him forever. He knows that Crowley needs reassurance that they are done denying they belong together.

“You know,” he says, twisting his fingers in the hair at Crowley’s neck, the way he knows Crowley likes, “Sometimes I think I’m more alive now than I have been for my entire existence. Here, with you, I feel more alive than I can ever remember. With you, I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be.”

Crowley is quiet for a long while, but he wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s middle and squeezes once, twice, three times. Aziraphale knows what he means.

At last, Crowley lifts his head, biting his lip, and touches his glass to Aziraphale’s.

“To new beginnings,” Crowley says, affection so clear in his voice that Aziraphale’s chest warms. His eyes are liquid gold and indescribably tender. 

Aziraphale nods. “To us,” he says.

( _I love you_ , he thinks.)

They drink their champagne, and they eat their cheese, and they stay there for a long while, watching the fireworks burst into color, streaking the night sky, as another year begins.

…

_125 Days After the World Didn't End_

They’ve finished Chrissy Teigen’s cookbook, and now they’re on to Bobby Flay’s. They’ve taken to really experimenting with cooking, seeing what they can create. Well, Aziraphale has been experimenting with cooking, more accurately, and Crowley has been indulging his many (bad) attempts.

Tonight, Aziraphale tried his hand at coq au vin, and it just went _awfully_ – the fire alarm went off, smoke filling the kitchen, and Crowley swiftly miracled away the burning remnants of chicken while laughing hysterically. They ordered Chinese food instead and ate out of cartons on the floor, passing a bottle of wine back and forth and doing incredibly bad imitations of Gabriel and Michael.

Aziraphale would say it’s one of his favorite nights of his very long existence, but then, all of his favorite nights have been with Crowley, and most of them have been in this cottage. “Favorite” has started to have very little meaning for him when everything is so consistently wonderful.

When everything is as it should have always been.

They’re cleaning the kitchen when something…changes.

Aziraphale can feel it – the air has just slightly turned, the universe slowing for just a moment. He wonders if Crowley has stopped time by accident.

But no. Time is still moving. It’s just that there’s tension where there wasn’t before. It’s just that for some reason, he feels like he’s waiting for something.

And then –

“I wouldn’t have gone to Alpha Centauri,” Crowley announces.

Aziraphale startles, dropping the fork he’s holding. “My dear –”

“I wouldn’t have gone,” Crowley repeats. “I was desperate when I said we should go. I didn’t think there was anything we could do, and I was so worried that we’d get caught in the war and get obliterated. But I wouldn’t have – couldn’t have – left you to face that alone.”

Aziraphale just stares at him. His mind is blank.

“It wouldn’t have meant anything if you weren’t there,” Crowley admits, and there’s something defiant in his voice, as if he expects Aziraphale to fight him on this. “I stopped time rather than lose you. I would never have gone to Alpha Centauri, even if you hated me.”

“My dear, I never hated you,” Aziraphale can’t help but break in. “I was just a coward. I was just too beholden to Heaven to see that we were on our own side.”

“I know,” Crowley placates, reaching out to touch Aziraphale’s hand, as if wanting to comfort him (Aziraphale finds himself stilling). “I just thought that you should know that I wouldn’t have gone. I would have stayed with you until the end.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know if he imagines what Crowley isn’t saying: _I would have loved you, if you’d let me._

“My dear –” He stops. He doesn’t know what to say. “I never –” He tries again, but something gets stuck in his throat.

Crowley smiles; it’s a sad smile. He looks away from him. “It’s okay.”

Again, Azirapahale wonders what Crowley isn’t saying: _It’s okay that you’re not ready. I’ll wait for you. It hurts me, but I’ll wait for you forever if that’s what it takes._

Aziraphale wishes he had the words to explain himself. He thinks he’s ready – most of the time, he has to bite his lip to stop himself from telling Crowley that he loves him and probably has for almost a century – but somehow, he can’t quite bring himself to say so. He doesn’t know what he’s afraid of, really – even if Crowley doesn’t feel exactly the way he does, he trusts Crowley, and he knows his demon would never abandon him or respond with derision. So what is holding him back?

Maybe he’s scared of Crowley loving him back. Of how all-consuming and powerful that would be. Crowley is the person who knows him best in the world, who has always been by his side. What will happen if something changes and he loses him?

Regardless of what’s holding him back, he finds himself unable to say another word.

So he doesn’t say anything. He lets the moment pass, and Crowley lets the moment pass, and they keep drinking and laughing. And all the while, Aziraphale tries to find it in himself to be brave.

…

Later, much later, Crowley yawns widely. He stands up, extending a hand to Aziraphale and smiling Aziraphale’s favorite smile, soft and loving and containing all the millennia of their history together.

“Bed, angel?” He asks, and there’s nothing suggestive about it (in fact it’s what he asks almost every night), but still it ignites nerve endings all over Aziraphale’s skin. 

Aziraphale nods nervously, hoping Crowley doesn’t catch the way his lower lip trembles. He’s shaken from their earlier interaction, and he’s trying to hide it, but he feels raw and exposed, as if everything he feels is written all over his face. 

(He knows that’s a biological and metaphysical impossibility, and finds it an indictment of his current emotional state that he is resorting to metaphors.)

They go up the stairs together, Crowley leading the way, as he always does. It’s quiet and calm in their house, in the life they’ve built together. 

Once they reach their bedroom, Crowley snaps his fingers to change into his black silk pajamas. He gets into bed, his expression warm and happy. Aziraphale goes into their bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth - he technically doesn’t need to, of course, but over the years he’s found that adopting certain human routines makes him feel more settled - and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks old. Or maybe it’s that he looks tired: tired of pretending.

“Get it together,” he whispers harshly at his reflection. “You are a principality, you were made to withstand much worse than this.”

He shakes his head, trying to shake off the emotion that’s thick in his throat. He loves Crowley. He’s always loved Crowley. Why is that so hard to admit to Crowley?

Why is that so hard to admit to himself?

He turns off the bathroom light and steels himself, walking back into their bedroom.

Crowley smiles _so big_ when Aziraphale climbs into bed, and impulsively Aziraphale throws his arms around his neck. Crowley chuckles, warm and fond, just the way he likes it, and he fights the inexplicable urge to cry. How could he have been so blind? How could he have even considered walking away from him? Being a foot soldier of Heaven could never be enough for him. He wants more. He wants all of Crowley, everything, forever.

“Woah there, angel,” Crowley says, his hands settling on the small of Aziraphale’s back, a touch so intimate that something in the angel just gives way. “No need to tackle me. Everything okay there?”

Aziraphale nods, too afraid to speak, and clutches him tighter.

Crowley lets him for a minute, rubbing soothing circles on the bare skin of his spine (making him shiver, obviously), but as always, he knows him better than the angel likes to admit.

“Really, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs, moving his lips to his ear, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

(What goes unspoken is that Aziraphale has only ever clung to him like he can’t breathe when he’s woken up from a nightmare.)

Aziraphale bites his lip. “I just –” He can’t continue.

They’re silent for another moment. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s measured breath, the in and out of his chest against his cheek, and it helps a little. He tries so very hard to swallow down his fear and fall over the precipice. He wants to _so badly_.

He has to.

“Did you mean what you said?” Aziraphale asks finally, his voice shaking a little. He burrows deeper in Crowley’s bare chest, afraid to look at him, afraid to breathe in that distinct brimstone smell for fear of disrupting the haven they’ve created over the last few months.

(Afraid to lose him.)

“Did I mean what?” He can almost _hear_ the furrow in Crowley’s brow. Like everything else he does these days, it only endears him to Aziraphale more.

“You –” Aziraphale pauses, tries to breathe through his fear. “You said you wouldn’t have gone to Alpha Centauri without me. You said you would have rather stayed with me, even if it meant we both died.”

Crowley goes rigid almost immediately, his hands tightening on Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale stills, too, fighting the impulse to look at him. He doesn’t want to know what his reaction will be.

Aziraphale plows on, instead. He might as well go out with a bang, as the kids say.

“If you – if you meant what you said,” he continues, shaking a little, but determined to get this out. “I’d like to know. I don’t quite know what you meant by it, but my dear, I want you to know that I –”

“Of course I did,” Crowley breaks in finally, as if he’s only just now managed to find his voice. “Of course I meant it.”

The words are soft, reverent even, and Aziraphale takes a risk and looks up at him. His eyes are full of – love. 

(Has it always been love?)

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, sweeping a hand under his chin like he can’t bear not to be touching him, and Aziraphale’s human heart starts to beat in staccato time. “Of course I meant it. I’ve never lied to you, have I?”

Crowley smiles, wry, and Aziraphale stutters, dumbfounded. “You–” He can’t finish.

Crowley leans forward, resting his forehead against his, and Aziraphale breathes him in. As always, he smells like leather and celestial power. He smells like Crowley, and Aziraphale feels himself relax. He knows how he feels about him. It may be terrifying, but he can do this. He wants to do this.

“I fell in love with you the moment you gave away your flaming sword,” Crowley says, slow, steady, as if he doesn’t want to scare him off. “I would never leave you.”

Aziraphale pulls away a little, just so he can look at him. Crowley is patient, serious. 

Certain.

And somehow, after 6,000 years of second-guessing his every movement with Crowley, Aziraphale doesn’t overthink this moment. He just closes the gap between them and touches his lips to Crowley’s.

There’s a moment of resistance on Crowley’s part, a moment of hesitation where he must be processing what’s been said and implied, and Aziraphale worries, just for a second.

But then Crowley is kissing him back, licking into his mouth slow and sure, and light is bursting behind his eyelids, and he’s laughing, making it hard for their mouths to meet, and he thinks he might burst.

He pulls back to cradle Crowley’s cheek in his hands, and he finally whispers the truth he’s known for decades but been afraid to name, “I love you, you know.”

Crowley grins, a devilish thing that somehow still seems alight with joy. “I know.” He waggles his eyebrows dramatically. “Now prove it.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but happily obliges.

…

They lie in bed later, Aziraphale tracing random circles on Crowley’s bare chest. The demon’s breathing is even, measured. The angel is watching the tidy shadow of their fan flashing on the ceiling. Neither of them is saying anything. 

“I was scared,” he says after a long while.

Crowley stills beneath his touch, tenses just once.

“I was scared of loving you,” he admits, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “I convinced myself that I was scared you didn’t love me back, but really I think a part of me always knew that you did. I think that’s what scared me. You loved me enough to give up everything, and I didn’t know if I was that brave.”

“You were, though,” Crowley says gently, stroking Aziraphale’s hair with steady, even touches, his body relaxing. “When it mattered, you were.”

“Only because I had you,” Aziraphale points out bitterly - bitter that he was a coward for so long. “Only because you were brave enough for both of us.” 

Crowley shifts them so they’re facing each other. His eyes are gleaming in the moonlight, and he looks tender, much more forgiving than Aziraphale thinks he deserves. “You’ll always have me,” he says seriously. “And I’ll always be brave enough for the both of us. You’ll always be worth fighting for.”

Aziraphale smiles weakly. His chest feels inexplicably tight. “Oh, you wily old serpent. You always know just what to say.”

Crowley cups his cheek, his fingers skimming the side of his face. “Only because I know you,” he counters. “Only because I understand what you’ve been so afraid of. It’s scared me, too, needing you so much that I was willing to throw everything else away. I made my peace with it when I saved you from the Bastille –”

“Oh really, then?” For some reason, that surprises Aziraphale. 

“Yes,” Crowley says, brushing a sweet kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead, the touch still so novel that it makes something in Aziraphale’s chest flutter. “I loved you for a long time before that, of course, but I had never been so terrified for you, and I realized that I would do anything to keep you safe. It didn’t matter that I might get in trouble with Hell, or that you couldn’t even admit we were friends. I needed you, and I would do anything for you.”

Aziraphale’s throat closes, tears pricking the backs of his eyes. “That’s very sweet, my dear.”

Crowley groans. “Yeah, don’t go spreading it around. I’m only that sweet to you.”

Aziraphale smiles. “We both know that’s not true, you’re much sweeter to everyone than you’d like the world to know,” he says, reaching up to kiss Crowley. The way Crowley yields immediately to his lips will likely never lose its sheen. 

Aziraphale snuggles back into Crowley’s side after several joyous kisses, pulling himself as close to him as he can manage. They’re quiet for a long moment, love and peace suffusing the air like ambrosia. Crowley sweeps a hand up and down Aziraphale’s spine, tenderness imbued in his every touch. Aziraphale breathes in the smell of brimstone and lavender and says a silent prayer that they made it here at last. 

“For me,” Aziraphale says finally, “It was when you saved me from the Germans in that church.” 

Crowley doesn’t react beyond squeezing him just a little tighter, and Aziraphale is grateful - this is harder to say than he expected. 

“I’m sure I loved you before then, but when you walked into the church, even though it hurt you to stand on consecrated ground, even though we weren’t talking, even though the last time we’d seen each other I’d said awful things to you, I realized - “He breaks off, overwhelmed by the epiphanies of that moment, and Crowley shushes him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. 

Aziraphale shifts so he can see Crowley’s face. It feels important that he see Crowley’s eyes - that Crowley see his face - when he says this. 

“I realized the only thing that had ever kept me from loving you was my conviction that you and I were different, that you were a demon,” he says softly, framing Crowley’s dear, dear face. “And at that moment, I knew that had been a lie all along.”

He takes a deep breath, holding Crowley’s gaze. It’s so freeing to be able to love Crowley like this. He has always loved being with Crowley, even though he’d been hiding how he really felt. But he’s surprised by just how good it feels to stop pretending. 

“You have always been incredibly compassionate” - he presses a kiss to the hollow of Crowley’s cheekbone - “Incredibly brave and fearless about who you are - “ he nuzzles Crowley’s nose with his - “Incredibly committed to the beauty and atrocity of the world and all its humans” - he traces the shells of Crowley’s ears with his fingers - “Incredibly loyal, even when I didn’t deserve it” - he kisses Crowley’s forehead with something like reverence - “And always, always, always incredibly loving toward me” - he drops a last kiss to Crowley’s lips, his heart swelling. 

He pulls back, locking eyes with Crowley. Crowley, his true north. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that my place was next to you,” he says quietly. “And I’m sorry that it took me even longer to be brave enough to tell you that I’m in love with you, and that loving you is a part of me now.” 

Crowley smiles, and it’s a pure, real thing. “Oh angel,” he says, and it’s the tone he uses when he’s feeling most fond of Aziraphale, a tone that Aziraphale finally recognizes for the lovesick feeling it holds. “Don’t apologize. I would have waited for you for six more millennia.”

Aziraphale knows he means it, and that makes him start to cry happy tears. “Crowley,” he bites out between sobs, “I will spend the rest of my eternal life loving you as you deserve. I owe that to you.”

Crowley brushes away his tears with the pads of his thumbs. “You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “But I plan to spend the rest of my eternal life loving you, too, so I guess we’ve got a deal.” 

He smiles broadly, and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. What an amazing future to contemplate. 

Crowley pulls him in for another kiss, and then another, and then another, and Aziraphale joins him in the purest wave of joy he’s ever experienced. 

…

_365 Days After the World Didn't End_

Aziraphale wakes a year after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t to hair in his mouth.

This is nothing unusual, of course. In the last few months, it has become abundantly clear that Crowley is a _snuggler_. Or, more accurately, he is a snake that likes to wrap every one of his limbs as tightly as celestially – demonically – humanly, whatever – as possible around Aziraphale. Of course, he was like this before also, but it’s become somewhat different since they confessed their love. He leaves no part of them not touching, and in the morning he _whines_ when Aziraphale tries to get out of bed. Apparently all he needed to latch onto Aziraphale with his entire being was permission, which Aziraphale obviously happily gave.

Aziraphale just breathes for a few minutes, reveling in the feeling that has become second-nature to him recently. He feels surrounded by the purest love, and it’s all emanating from Crowley. For once, he can distinguish between his own love and Crowley’s, but now he doesn’t need to – they are one, as they were always meant to be.

Crowley stirs.

“Husband,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead.

“Husband,” Aziraphale returns.

They lay there for a long while, holding each other close, and another day begins.

_fin_

_"I burned so long so quiet you must have wondered_   
_if I loved you back. I did, I did, I do.”_   
_\- Annelyse Gelman_


End file.
